Our walls may break, but not our hearts
by rinoa.l.trancy
Summary: General Ivan Braginski from the NKVD gets to the fortified stronghold of Königsberg, which still resists the Soviet siege. There he faces the Oberleutnant Gilbert Beilschmidt, whom he takes as a prisoner of war. Thereafter it begins a game of domination and resistance in which no one is willing to lose.[Historical][LongFic][AU Human]Romantic Drama.YAOI. RusPru/PruRus Soviet and GDR
1. Chapter 1 - Königsberg

****PREVIOUS NOTES:****

Hallo everyone! This is my first Russia/Prussia fic (my mooost favourite OTP along with the Germancest) *~fireworks and military tunes~*. First of all I would want you all to know this is my translation of my original fic "Unsere Mauern brechen, unsere Herzen Nicht" (which is in Spanish). So please be gentle and patient because English is not my mother tongue (So even if I try my best, I know there will be some odd structures and mistakes). If someone is willing to give me a hand to correct this chapter or help me with future ones, I will be VERY glad to continue uploading this story here. By the way, the prose becomes quicker later on. This is just the beginning ;) **UPDATED NOTE: **From Chapter 2 on, the fic is being beta-tested by _Lemons in my Life_, so expect no more errors ^^

For this single fic I have read about a hundred history books (true story ^^;) because I'm that kind of person who wants to do her things as best she can. This doesn't mean this fic is too heavily focused on history; I just wanted to place the story in a right context. So please have in mind the storyline covers the years between 1945 and 1953 (some flashback scenes as the Siege of Leningrad happens before that date and the epilogue includes one scene of "some years later"). So yeah, here you'll find the first years of the Cold War in Russia and mainly in East Germany.

Oh! Just a couple of things I would like to add... This story begins like a "typical" RusPru fic. I mean, they are die-hard enemies at the beginning, but well... things evolve, you know. On the other hand, they are humans, NOT countries. Be ready for possible deaths. And for yaoi. LOTS of yaoi.

I hope you like it! Please comment if you do, and I'll reply every comment with a bright and a happy smile :)

****OTHER HETALIA CHARACTERS WHO APPEAR OR ARE MENTIONED:**** Austria, Poland, Hungary, Denmark, Nyo!Norway, Nyo!Finland, Germany, Belarus, Ukraine, UK, USA.

****WARNING****** (don't panic. It's not that hard, even if it looks like it. It's a ****ROMANTIC DRAMA**** above all): **YAOI, lemon, violence, torture, BDSM, a scene that could be interpreted as a non-con, explicit language, angst, fluff at its due time, possible deaths.

****DISCLAIMER:**** The characters don't belong to me, but to Hidekaz Himaruya. Nonetheless I've registered the story changing names and some situations. The opinions of the characters on politics and other sensitive views are not necessarily shared by the author.

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><p><strong><strong>Chapter 1. KÖNIGSBERG<strong>**

1

It had been several days since the Russian did not deign to appear in his cozy dwelling. If it were not for his inventiveness to mortify him had become more and more clever, refined and twisted, he would even have missed its insidious presence. He was not quite sure if they bring food to him once a day, so in the absence of the slightest glimmer of light, he had given up keeping track of the time he had spent among those narrow four walls.

The extreme darkness in which he was plunged was even worse than the mild torture that lunatic with incoherently kind voice had inflicted upon him. His voice was indeed the only thing that he clearly perceived in that blackness, plagued with those sibilant sounds that shared cell with him. Despite the disturbing sweetness of the words of his jailer, he preferred solitude to those cruelties with which the Russian punished him for hours and sometimes, he was almost certain, days.

"Did you know you can go blind if you stay in the dark long enough?"

That was one of the first things he said. He could not see him, but he would have bet his own little remnants of dignity that the Russian had a smirk on his face. His tone betrayed him.

At first, all the Russian did was to stand there, close to him; the prisoner could feel his presence, heard his slow breathing, feel his body heat in the cold of his cell, and he caught himself thinking that he should fear him. However, he ended feeling desperately comforted when he returned, even though he knew what the Russian was capable of. He knew he could have devastating bursts of rage from his own experience. As in the very and fateful day in Königsberg, where he had the misfortune to meet him.

Over time, the Soviet began to ask him questions in German to which he never responded. What is your full name? What was your rank in the army? ... How many Russians had he killed? Had he participated in any slaughter of innocent civilians? (This seemed hypocritical coming from someone who had taken part in the destruction of thousands of civilians in East Prussia, but he conveniently kept his opinion for himself). _Had he participated in the siege of Leningrad?_ The Russian pronounced this latter one with an anger he did not bother to hide. It was one of the few questions that Gilbert dared to answer. _Nein_. And as soon as the monosyllable came out from his lips cracked with thirst, he regretted having done so. It was the first time the Russian touched him (the second one actually, taking into account when they first met, that terrible and now distant 9th of April). His captor punched him in the jaw so hard he threw him backwards to the ground and made him to believe that he had dislocated the bones of his face. The power of that huge Bolshevik was colossal, according to their size, and of course, he was not willing to experience it again. And even if he had wanted to answer, he could not have. It was pretty obvious he did not know a word of Russian. The Prussian would never have learned the language of a dirty _Untermensch_.

In one occasion he brought a gas lamp and forced him to look directly to the flames without even touching a single hair of his head ("I want to see your inhuman eyes, _német_"). It was only one order. It took only a few words for him to obey as a well-trained puppy until he burned his pupils, which were highly sensitive to direct light. He was hating himself for about four more Russian visits. The bastard was good. He knew exactly what he was doing. And each time the Prussian found harder to pretend indifference to his own fate and to hide the growing anguish that was eating his mind. He could not have him there forever, locked in the damn dark until he went mad, could he? Was it perhaps his final plan?

But suddenly his sadistic jailer had stopped attending his mandatory appointments. He knew right away that it was not him the one who was approaching his cell because he could recognise well the sound of his footsteps by then. 'The giant with feet of clay'. He would have laughed, but it was not really a good idea. Not only because his jailers could hurt him, but also because it was very likely his laughter became hysterical and ended up losing his mind.

So the Russian had forgotten him. Now it was a total stranger who opened the door and threw the food over him with some bad manners. When it was a piece of dry bread he did not care too much, but sometimes it was a wooden bowl filled with tasteless soup, and then he cursed the Mother Russia and all their offsprings for their hospitality. It was the same with water. In the end he had to remove the rags that covered his body and had to squeeze the last drop of water or soup that had soaked them in order to drink. If only the bowl were made from ceramic, he would have quickly ended his suffering. But no, they did not even concede him this last consolation.

If he were to see that _russkiy_ again, he would beg him to kill him.

He did not do it.

* * *

><p>2<p>

"Did you miss me, my white little puppy?"

The Soviet's silhouette delineated, backlit, in the threshold of the cell's door due to the light that streamed from the outside. Instinctively, Gilbert covered his eyes with one arm to shun the luminosity that irritated his eyes, accustomed to the darkness, but also to avoid the Russian.

Of course he had not forgotten him. Of course not.

He flinched and prayed for the newcomer did not notice his shaking.

"_Da nyet_", he muttered, with his arm still protecting his face, and yet the other man heard his answer clearly.

The shock that produced the laughter from the Russian when he heard his reply, almost took his breath away. He never would have guessed that this relentless guy knew how to laugh and his tremor even lessened down a bit.

"Good. I see you've learned something useful in my absence".

Ivan took a few steps toward his prisoner and stopped right next to him. Feeling the giant looming over him, Gilbert covered his head with both arms this time and shouted with the little strength he still harbored after the intense food shortage that had lasted almost for four months:

_"_Bitte, tut mir nicht weh! Bitte nicht!"__

He knew that the only two times he had spoken in German to him, he ended lying on the floor and trying to protect his integrity and his teeth, so he was prepared to receive the corresponding beating. But his anticipation was in vain, because the blows never came. The Russian simply grab him by an arm and lift him from the ground as if he was a little boy.

"This is a fucking pigsty", he said, wrinkling his nose as he dragged the other man at the door with an astonishingly easy move. "And I get bored of watching you in the darkness. I miss the nuances ... of your reactions.

Gilbert was silent again. The best thing is not to respond. The sensible thing is to go along—, he repeated endlessly for himself, making a superhuman effort not to fall to the ground like a useless burden.

"You're going to take a bath and then maybe we can play something together if I'm still in the mood", informed the Soviet with a smile full of sweetness. "I've just had an endless train ride from Berlin and I'm so bored I would be able to kill you in one blow for fun, but it would be stupid of me to get rid so soon of my newest toy.

The damn Bolshevik had a more than acceptable level of German, so he could not pretend not to understand what he was saying.

"_Da_ — ", replied the Prussian, shuddering when they came at last out of the cell.

"I'm going to show you another useful thing in Russian. I assure you that you will use this expression more than any other. Есть! Repeat it, come on".

"_Jest_", Gilbert whispered trying to emulate the pronunciation.

"Not bad for a German", he said shrugging. "It means 'Yes, sir'. So now you know. Your new favourite word when you address me.

"есть".

"Smart bunny. I'm very proud of you". Ivan patted on his back so hard that his prisoner fell to the ground limply and only when he kicked him in the back with one of his thick snow boots, he got up and continued on their way hobbling, choking back tears of humiliation, anger, pain and frustration.

For now he would go with the flow. Mostly because he was about to fall apart and he would not give him the satisfaction of losing consciousness and falling at his feet. But as soon as he had the slightest chance of recovery ... then he'd face the consequences.

He did not even know where they were. Somewhere in Russia, that was clear, but that damned country was almost as big as his own ego. According to his calculations it should already be summer, and yet, the cold in those hallways where the Russian was dragging him were inconceivably unbearable. Especially for the meager scraps of cloth which they had dressed him with.

The Russian stopped at some door and without bothering to knock, he shouted a few words in his language and a woman came out of the room immediately. They exchanged a few words in a rapid and peremptory Russian and the woman made a respectful and martial gesture. Perhaps knowing Russian was not that bad after all. At least now he would know what were they intending to do with him. Those reds could have a headless army, without his best officers, without a proper chain of command, but they had still defeated them. By overwhelming numerical superiority, yes, and thanks also to General Winter, but that did not lessen the pain of failure, rather the opposite. The Soviet female comrade took him by his arm without even looking at him and urged him to walk by her side with a dry, sharp tug. Gilbert glanced at the man who had entrusted him to the woman and who stayed behind, alone now and with a slightly amused look.

"The Comrade Arlovskaya will treat you well, _német_", he assured with a mocking and dismissive hand gesture while they were moving away. "Don't worry! Russian women are not like German women, believe me".

_Of course not, you filthy communist._ He would never forget those girls and those midwives from the outskirts of East Prussia, their eyes open wide in a grimace of frozen horror, their brains scattered on the ground, her skirts up to their waist.

At least for the moment they didn't seem to have imminent plans to end his agony.

The Prussian watched his new warden and assessed his options for escape. The conclusion reached in just a few seconds was that it was unworkable. He barely had the strength to stand, and the woman was strong and almost as tall as him. She wore the green uniform of a Soviet intermediate rank he did not know. Her hair was golden blonde and she had it neatly tied back and covered with a cap with the familiar red star, the hammer and the sickle. If it were not for the badges, this woman could have easily passed for a German beauty with delicate features, yet inflexible. Of course in Germany there had been women in uniform too. Some among the SS, but even among their ranks were uncommon.

His gaze got lost in the top of her uniform and clearly felt himself blushing when he distinguished the curves of that busty and sullen Russian lady through the warm fabric of her jacket.

_Oh, come on, you spent some months like a caged animal and this is the first thing that comes into your head?_

She was, in fact, too beautiful by Russian standards. Did his captor select her on purpose?

"_Kamerad_ Arlovskaya", he said trying to curry favor with her, "_wo Sie bringen mich hin, bitte_?"

Her only answer was to walk faster, grimacing in disgust, and take themselves outside in just a few seconds, where a blazing sun shone above, making him to retreat and to moan in pain.

"_Warte!_ Wait! I can not expose myself to the sun and after —"

She pulled his arm so hard that even the fabric tore around his shoulder. He complained of pain unnecessarily, but of course the Russian woman couldn't speak German and was not going to take pity on him. He could feel the woman's aversion to him with an almost palpable sharpness.

Apparently they were in a sort of military camp. They stood next to what looked like a barracks and a few buckets next to a water trough for horses, and finally realized what she intended to do with him. He would have bet his own dispossessed Iron Cross that they would not have bothered to heat the water for him. A small courtesy to a negligible "Nazi Dog" whom they had in their possession? It was useless to repeat to them that he was not a Nazi, and never had been; they kept calling him that. The woman blurted out something in Russian and gestured insistently towards the buckets and then pointed to him and his clothes. His light blue icy eyes barely stopped on him more than necessary. She disliked him. He was aware of it. And he do not blame her. At that time he did not even stand himself.

"Do you want me to take a shower and lather me here, Fräulein? In front of everyone? With the horses' water?"

She eagerly pointed out his clothes again. Around them there were a few uniformed men who had stopped what they were doing and suppressed laughter, while others directly guffawed at that German prisoner who was already shivering under the barely warm Muscovite sun. Everything in that country was too fucking cold. The Prussian pursed his lips angrily and thought that there were lots of worse things.

Seeing he was taking too much time, comrade Arlovskaya lost her temper and slapped him wearily, like someone who did that kind of thing every day, and then tear off the upper garment and approach to him one of the buckets with her foot. One of the Russians cheered and whistled, and laughter multiplied around him. If only it had been months ago, he would have nothing to be ashamed of, but having lost some of the muscle mass he had been so proud of, now the bones of his hips and ribs protruded and stood terribly under his skin. He bent down to take the soap and to end it as soon as possible, but the woman stopped him and chuckled, shaking her head. Then she pointed unmistakably to his pants and he even detected a slight hint of amusement in the expressionless eyes of the Soviet woman. Meanwhile the Prussian cursed the superlative whiteness of his skin, as his blushing, which was beginning to manifest itself, it would be clearly visible for miles around.

Well, it would take more than that to break his will.

He got rid of the pants pretending dignity and stole a glance around, expecting to see the Russian somewhere, witnessing his public humiliation. For some reason, the possibility he was watching him affected him more than the mocking exclamations that were spreading through the camp before his helpless nudity.

The woman approached him with a bucket, raised it over his head, and with a half-smile, looking him up and down carefully, she confided him in a very marked German accent:

"Naked men are so pitiful. And without your uniform you're nobody, _da_?"

Right after that, apathetically, she dumped the ice water over his head.

* * *

><p>3<p>

"__Oberleutnant __Gilbert Beilschmidt! Be assured that if we weren't in this desperate situation, and if you weren't a pretty competent military officer, I'd held a council of war in your honour at this very moment!

The Prussian did not even know why he was there, facing a guy he despised so much and whose only merit was to have been the greatest exponent of the Party in East Prussia. A sort of small-scale Hitler with almost total power to tyrannize the farthest and most vulnerable province of the Reich. He, of course, as a member of the _Wehrmacht_ did not directly owed obedience to him, but looking for more unnecessary problems in the middle of that chaotic maelström unleashed since past January would not have been very smart on his part.

"Don't think that because they have granted you the Iron Cross first class you can get away with it. What do you think you are? A hero?"

_A hero no. A soldier_, thought the lieutenant. _Saving lives of innocent civilians is what a good soldier have to do, nazi scum of office_.

Of course he was smart enough to bite his tongue at the proper times. Although the truth was that sometimes he could not help giving vent to his feelings, and he feared that this was going to be one of those times.

"Come on, come on! Speak! You are pissing me off!"

Gilbert pursed his lips and mentally counted to three.

"With all due respect, _Gauleiter_ Koch, I did what I had to do according to the military code of honor.

"You disobey a direct order from the Führer!"

The countermanded order in question had actually come from the very Erich Koch, who did not want to evacuate more than 170,000 Berliners who had sheltered in East Prussia to escape the incessant bombings in the capital. Goebbels wanted to get those civilians back, but the Gauleiter of Prussia managed to get away with it, at least partly, and 55,000 women and children could flee Königsberg before the visit from the Red Army.

"Resisting to the end?", inquired the Prussian ironically, raising an eyebrow. "I have not violated that order. I'm planning to stay here until the collapse of the castle and to die in battle".

"Are you saying we are going to lose this war, _Oberleutnant_ Beilschmidt?"

"I'm saying that I will comply with my orders."

During the past few months that hypocritical politician had not stopped urging the citizens to resist until the end. 'Victory is ours! Königsberg will be the tomb of the Bolsheviks!', he shouted everywhere. While he, of course, put his family safe and fled the city on 28th January for shelter in a bunker nearby Pillau. Koch ignored, consciously or not, the Lieutenant's veiled criticism towards him and stared at him with a grimace.

"Do you think taking all those civilians out of the city was your duty? We need to the last man to defend our city from those damn Asian beasts".

"I didn't take them out of the city, sir".

"You help them to flee. Or you didn't do anything to avoid it. I, as commander of the _Volkssturm_ can not accept the risk that you have caused with your ... with your pathetic commiseration".

"These men, women and children were only mouths to feed and would only be a hindrance to our troops".

Not to mention that they would be an easy and ready-made bait for the revenge of the Soviets. That was obvious, but it doesn't matter to this coward who had taken his Mercedes to Pillau to flee as soon as he had the slightest chance.

"I'd rip all your stripes and call the _Feldgendarmerie_ to put you into custody. And if I don't do it, it's because I don't want to waste my valuable time giving explanations to your superiors. But I'll have a word with General Lasch.

"Well, sir, can I be dismissed? I have a fortress to defend".

"You're dismissed, yes. Get out from my sight! And I hope I don't have to see you again if not killing Russian rats. _Heil_ Hitler!"

Gilbert saluted and hesitated before answering '_Sieg Heil_' in a whisper and disappearing from his office in a hurry.

After talking to that little man with the mustache, he felt dirty and exhausted. Probably now the guy would catch his plane and would flee the besieged city. From the 23rd of January there were no more trains to Berlin, although most party members had managed to flee, leaving behind the certain conviction that was waiting there for the Russians. The Prussian citizens, however, had to flee down the road and in the middle of frost as they could, dragging their suitcases and their children behind them. Some refugees climbed aboard the Opel Blitz from the _Wehrmacht_, which would drive them to the only port that had escaped the occupation and boarding a providential boat to save them from the barbarism. So did Gilbert with his own fiancée, who at his insistence and his pleas to leave the city, she finally agreed to it.

"We'll meet again when this nightmare ends, _meine schöne Braut_".

The cheerful and desolate smile of hers burned in his memory and a terrible premonition made his heart beat even faster.

"Gilly, _mein liebling_. Survive, please", she said before giving him an intense but chaste kiss on the lips. Then she went up the scale of the huge ocean liner that was about to sail. The name of the ship was Wilhelm Gustloff.

Gilbert caressed with his trembling fingers the butt of his Luger and tried not to succumb again to the anguish which caused him to remember the name of that boat. He had nothing left to fight for. In fact, he didn't know why he was still there, still standing, offering his life for a Reich that had become a gigantic madhouse that had swept all humanity and hope of salvation.

He would fall with Königsberg. He could have chosen the easy way out, the cyanide, everyone in the doomed city were talking about it. But he had a duty to perform. He would make sure that seven of the eight bullets from his Luger were destined for seven Soviets. Until then, he won't stay sober for a second for what remained of his life.

The 26th of January, 1945 Königsberg was hit first by the Russian artillery fire. Half a year before the British RAF had already contributed to destroy the medieval Teutonic pride, reducing the old town to rubble. Now it was time for the Soviets. They surrounded the entire city at that exceptionally cold winter with temperatures that reached 20 under zero and, suddenly, against all odds, the Russians stopped their attack, perhaps attributing to the Germans more effective defenses for those who they truly had. The German army continued to strengthen the fortifications, but it was just a way of delaying the inevitable.

During those two months of agonizing wait, Gilbert was able to encourage his men even though morale was now irrecoverable. After the work of fortification, he allowed them to drink all the beer that was left of Ponarth, south of Königsberg. Hearing laughter in such an environment of defeatism was sometimes as comforting as infuriating. Bullets and Beer. They will welcome the Russians with these. At least it would be over sooner or later. An end with horror was preferable to an endless horror, and thinking about it, it was better than pretending a hysterical and drunk joy among his Old Comrades.

The final assault lasted three days.

On 9th of April, thousand Prussians deposed the weapons and raised their arms cherishing the volatile hope that the Russians would respect their lives. Many were executed on the spot, many others killed themselves with their own guns, while in some parts of the city in ruins, entire groups were taken captive.

The first time he saw Ivan, he looked like a kind of lucifer with an extreme light blond hair and dead eyes, all paleness, yet he radiated an icy rage that almost hurt physically. Given that unreal vision, Gilbert was even paralyzed for a moment, during which the bursts of machine-gun fire, the screams of the dying and the shrieks of nurses vanished for him, and only came to his ears some unintelligible orders that terrifying Russian was addressing to him with his braid ranks covered in blood.

When he regained his own perception, he realized that the Soviet was aiming with his Nagant directly to his head and that he was only a few feet away from him. Gilbert felt then the painful violet of his eyes, full of hate upon him, and in a reflex action he introduced the barrel of his own Luger into his mouth.

His vision got blurred and almost lose consciousness when the Russian hit him in the head with the butt of his Nagant. He tried to focus his eyes and realized that after the blow they had taken his gun away and there was no longer escape. Nazi propaganda echoed in his head: 'Victory or Siberia, Victoria or ... !'. Anything but that. He had seen with his own eyes the concentration camp of Stutthof, and if the infamous Gulags were half hellish than that, he clearly preferred they blew his brains away, right there right then.

He wanted to stand again but the blow had stunned him. He heard the Soviet arguing with the other men in Russian, and judging by his peremptory and authoritative tone, he must be the leader.

_They are deciding if they are going to kill me or not_, he thought with a strange serenity of mind. _Well, make them to put an end to all this nonsense, dear God._

After a while the exchange of views finished and he watched from the corner of the eye that the man stopped right in front of him.

"Rise, Nazi shit".

His voice sounded, unlike the one he had employed a moment ago, like a soft soothing melody. Uneasily delicate. Gilbert made no movement, but muttered something that his enemy did not catch. Then the man dropped to one knee on the ground beside him and grabbed him by the hair to lift his face.

"I didn't understand you, nazi shit, could you repeat it again for me?"

The Prussian shook his head and hurt himself because of the force with which the Soviet kept him immobilized.

"On your knees. Now!"

Gilbert put his faltering hands on the floor and knelt making an effort. A few drops of blood fell on the back of his hands, and he thought a bit surprised that the blood must be his own, from the earlier hit of the revolver. The man with dead eyes had stood up again when he saw the German has obeyed him.

"Look at me!"

At least he was speaking in his language. Maybe they could come to terms. With this last thought he was about to drop hysterically from laughter, but fortunately he caught himself in time.

So he obeyed again, and kneeling as he was in the ground, he lifted his head and fixed his defiant gaze on him, boldly, his blood color eyes gleaming with the courage with which he had decided to face his executioner. Ivan, meanwhile, stared him back from above for a while, so long that some of his men got impatient. Gilbert noticed that something changed in the cold eyes of the Russian and smiled to himself.

"You've got some beautiful eyes, nazi scum", Ivan commented suddenly, startling him with the unexpectedness of his tone and his message. They have the color of my army, my flag and that blood that is running down your left cheek right now.

The laughter of the Soviets, and especially, that condescending response and kindly smile of their boss was more than the Prussian could bear, so he finally confessed what he had so rashly said shortly before and the Russian had not heard:

"_Ich habe Sie gesagt, ich bin kein Nazi Kommunitischen Abschaum!" _

If he hadn't covered his head with his arms and hadn't been huddled himself up, he would have lost his teeth. Unfortunately, he could not help getting some bleeding and some broken bones. Truth is that when the Russian stopped kicking him with his boots on the head, arms and back after a few endless seconds, his own men felt uncomfortable with such display of wrath from their general. Ribs hurt so much the Prussian could barely breathe and, convulsing in pain, he spat a trail of blood on the floor.

"Forward march, little Prussian soldier! We'll see if you are still so brave in a few days", he smiled fiercely and added: "And by the way, don't ever bark to me in your language, _da_?"

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand and rushed his men to take him as a prisoner.

4

After the humiliation inflicted over him in the outdoor camp, he tried to comfort himself thinking again that there were much worse things than laughter at his own nakedness. At least it seemed that the fucking Russian had not been looming over him with a mocking glint in his cruel amethyst-ice eyes. His brow furrowed, angry with himself for thinking of his enemy eyes in quite flattering terms.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

The Soviet female comrade were escorting him back into the main building and had led him to a secluded office where he assumed he would be waiting for him. She knocked on the door with his knuckles and from within she was granted permission to open the door. She left him with a smile and disappeared clattering noisily down the hallway.

The Russian was sitting behind a desk, making short work of a meat dish with roast potatoes and vegetables and he did not even looked up when he came in and stood by silently in the middle of the room. He went about his business while leaving through some papers and occasionally took a bite out of a piece of meat.

Gilbert became moist-eyed when he saw all that delicious, fragrant and appetizing food which would not be for him and was even more aware of his weakness for not having eaten decently in months. His knees trembled, and knew he could not hold on longer, and though there was an empty chair at the table of the Russian, he would not have dared to sit without his express permission. So he waited, and waited ... until his captor finally cleared his throat and looked up at him. The Prussian tried to stay indifferent.

"You're shaking" warned Ivan after one of those deep, intense looks that seemed to have the power to pierce right through him. "Why? Are you cold or do you fear me?"

"I have been showered with iced water, sir".

"I know. It's for you to get used to it".

Gilbert shivered to the tip of his hair when he heard the casual, natural tone that the Russian had used.

"Y-yes, sir".

"But why are you still wearing those rags? This morning I gave to Comrade Arlovskaya some clothes for you".

"I don't wanna wear anything Russian", he said with reckless arrogance.

He expected, somewhat childishly, to bother him with his rebellion, one of the few things he could afford in that situation, but the Russian seemed to be in a good mood that morning and just gave him a cold smile. He realised that next to the food bowl was a bottle of vodka with only a couple of sips left. Apparently, the vodka made him more friendly.

"Is that why she slapped you in the face?"

To the dismay of Gilbert, Ivan pointed to his own cheek looking bored, and then he realized she must marked him with the palm of her hand.

"I told her not to touch your face. Not your face", remarked the Russian as to himself. "I'll have a word with her later".

"The fault is all mine, sir. Let it go. This is nothing".

Ivan was surprised.

"Are you defending her? One of your enemies? You are truly strange, Gilbert Beilschmidt".

When he heard his full name for the first time from his lips, his heart raced in his chest and he cursed internally. He was sure those incredible eyes would notice any change in his mood and the very thought terrified him. That he controlled up even his feelings.

"I'm just respectful to women", he replied shakily.

"Yes, I've checked a while ago you like women ... a lot", remarked the Soviet with a smile. "The little Prussian soldier grows and becomes very firm at the sight of one of our beautiful comrades", he said making an obscene and eloquent gesture with his fingers.

Gilbert felt himself blushing wildly and looked down to shun eye contact with him.

"That's not true. It was very cold and ... and ... it was impossible ... ".

So yes, he had been spying upon him. How would the demon had lost an opportunity to have fun at his expense?

"It's a shame. But I assure you that you'll never touch a woman in what's left of your life", he announced simply and smiled again with that maddening sweetness.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"You are my toy, little bunny. When I get tired of you, then, and only then, I might kill you. But for the moment you are ... huh ... very entertaining for me.

"Please, sir … "

"You can call me _Grazhdanín_ Braginski. Please what?"

"If you have finished … eating, _Grazhdanín_ Braginski, please, uh ... could you ...?

"Are you hungry, little bunny?"

Gilbert nodded. He was so hungry that he had sent his pride away. He would have done anything for eating his leftovers.

"Haven't they been feeding you well during my absence? Oh, poor thing. But it's true, you ain't looking well.

Then he straightened up in his chair and dragged the plate across the table at him until it reached the edge.

"Everything for you. But you'll have to eat standing up. I like watching you".

He did not think twice and he began eating with his bare hands so anxiously he was about to choke.

The Russian laughed. "Calm down or you'll vomit". He had not taken his eyes off from him for a single second.

" ... Thanks".

"_Spasibo"_.

"What?"

"Another Russian word for your own use and enjoyment. _Spasibo_. It means 'thank you'".

"_Jest"_.

"It's amazing how smart you are, little bunny. We may be able to teach you how to shake your paw and stuff.

Ivan Braginski rose from his chair and walked around the table to get closer to his prisoner. This man, if it was not enough, was surprisingly high, so the effect of intimidation doubled exponentially when he approached to his chosen victims.

"Turn back", he ordered in an authoritative tone.

Gilbert obeyed without much thought. For the moment, following his commands was not that bad. He had even been fed.

"Very well. Now take off that dirty shirt."

"Yes, _Grazhdanín_ Braginski". Now he felt a bit more insecure than before, but he did as told and exposed his naked torso for the second time that morning.

Ivan turned to check his back for half a minute in complete silence; a silence that was broken by Gilbert himself, as he jumped suddenly when he noticed the Russian's fingers on his bare skin.

"I love your back" he said in a whisper as he ran his warm fingers over him. "It's like a blank canvas, immaculate and virgin, waiting for someone to engrave his artwork on it", he laughed with malice. "You excite my imagination like no-one else, white puppy."

The Prussian did not respond to that and stood motionless while the fingers of the Russian were now feeling his ribs mockingly, his bones too painfully marked under his skin.

"Are you trembling again? Are you going to re-use the excuse of the cold?"

"It's cold, damn ...", Gilbert said in a small voice.

"Of course, welcome to Moscow's summer", Ivan finally pulled away and pointed at a cabinet in the corner of his office. "There you'll find some Russian clothes that you're going to wear. Disobey me, and the slap of the comrade Arlovskaya will be like a flapping of a butterfly compared to what I could make to you.

While he was dressing those warm clothes that the Soviet had offered him, he dared to try his luck once again and asked:

"Am I going to go back to that cell again? Because if it's so, you can kick me or hit me again, or whatever you think it's cool for you. But I'm not going back to that hole."

Ivan laughed.

"You're certainly weird, Prussian. You obey easily, but then you get a courage that could ruin you. You're not going back to that cell."

His sigh of relief was suddenly stopped when he heard the last two sentences that the Russian said with evident delight:

"You're going to a better place. Tomorrow we are off to Siberia."

* * *

><p><strong>SOME FINAL NOTES AND TRANSLATIONS:<strong>

-**The siege of Leningrad** was one of the worst and painful catastrophes in Russia in the Second world War (Or as the Russians call the conflict, "the Great Patriotic War"). The Germans blockaded the city for 900 days, since the 9th of September 1941 to 18th of January 1944. Sadly the cannibalism cases which took place within the walls of the city are well and widely known. There were more than a million of citizen casualties.

-_****Untermensch****__: Under men_ o subhuman. Amply used by the nazi propaganda, referred not only to Jewish people, but also to the slavic race, which they considered inferior. They thought after they conquest Russia, all their surviving inhabitants should be enslaved and ruled by the germanic "superior race".

-_****Német****_: "German" in Russian. Unlike the words which define the origin of someone derived usually from the name of his own country, in the specific case of Germans, Russians use this word derived from a slavic word who means "dumb". I've read somewhere this is because Germans usually didn't know a single word in Russian and therefore look like "dumbs" (ahem).

-**Giant with feet of clay**: Nowadays, (Wiki quotation here) "it's a phrase that refers to someone who appears strong or invincible, but who actually has a hidden weak point that could cause their demise". Originally it comes from the Bible, but it was also an expression who applied the Germans to Russia even before the Second World War. They said that Russia was a formidable enemy, but in the end they had a bad organization and few real possibilities to succeed in her war campaigns.

_**-**__****Russkiy****_: Russian. Some consider this is a pejorative adjective, some not. As usual, it depends on the speaker.

-_****Da nyet****_: This is one of those cases that make Russians so special. They don't have only yes or no. I'm cool with that. Why would I have to choose between two only choices. Life is more complicated than that. Ok, seriously, this is a Russian answer which is used to show an agreement, but only to a certain degree. It's a "no" but more nuanced than a strict NYET.

_-__****Bitte, tut mir nicht weh! Bitte nicht!****__: In German,_ "Please, don't hurt me, please!"

**-******есть!****: "Yes, sir", in Russian. It's pronounced "Jest". A nice Russian anonymous reader told me about another Russian word which means basically the same: Так точно. But I'm quoting some information about those two precise phrases from a forum:

[_There are some nuances which can cause misunderstanding._

_"Есть!" implies that a soldier has got an order from the commander. It sounds like "Aye aye sir!" or "Aye aye captain!"._

_"Так точно!" means that a soldier agrees with a commander (or other soldiers), literally it sounds like "Exactly so, sir!" but usually it's translated as "Yes, sir!". "Так точно" doesn't mean that a soldier has got a command, it's just a military version of "Yes" or "I agree"._]

_-_****Wo bringen Sie mich hin, bitte?******:** In German, "Where are you taking me, please?"

**-******Oberleutnant******: **Military rank in germanic armies translated into English as "senior lieutenant".

**-******Gauleiter******: **The party leader of a regional branch of the NSDAP or Nazi party.

**-******Volkssturm******: **People's militia in the last months of the Third Reich. They were German men between 16 and 60 years who were forced to serve in the Army when the War was practically over. They were generally and logically massacred. They actually recruited children up to 9 years and old men up to 70 years!

**-******Meine schöne Braut:****"My beautiful fiancée" in German.

-****Wilhelm Gustloff******: **That was the name of an ocean liner that was reconverted into an evacuation ship for the civilians from the Eastern Germany. It was torpedoed by a Soviet submarine and it sank with more than 10,000 people aboard. More than 9,000 people died in the freezing waters of the Baltic. It was the worst marine catastrophe in history.

-****Ich habe Sie gesagt, ich bin kein Nazi, Kommunitischen Abschaum******!**: "I've already told you. I'm not a Nazi, you filthy communist!"

-**Grazhdanín**: Citizen. One of the ways in the Soviet Union to address someone who is not worthy enough to be called as a Tovarich or comrade.

I hope you're not scared with this first chapter. :) Truth is this is just the presentation. Later on I'm more focused on the characters and their relationships. And believe me, I can be very cruel to these two gentlemen. *sadistic and innocent smile, Ivan's style*


	2. Chapter 2 - Siberia (1st Part)

**PREVIOUS NOTES:**

My biggest thanks to my precious and amazing beta who offered me to correct my unforgiving mistakes. I need to work harder! So if you like the story please thanks her for giving me a hand to continue this translation. We both need motivation, artists are like this, what can I say?

My friend and Beta is the lovely _Lemons in my Life._ ^^

I really enjoy writing RuPru. As I see it, this is a relationship that is so powerful, so full of possibilities... And it doesn't need to have rape or never-ending violence. I like my stories as intense as possible, but romance is the core of it. And my personal version of Russia is not that of a sadistic psycho, but of a man who has suffered a LOT and tries to survive in his own way. My favorite character in Hetalia is the awesome Prussia (and this made me interested even more in German history and to improve my German and looove everything Germanic), but Russia has grown on me too. He is so damn special... :)

Thanks so much to my commenters, I'll continue this translation just for you guys. Your kind words are encouraging and I'm glad that some nice Russians took the time to send me a review (Not my Germans readers, they don't say a word... why, oh why? *cries*).

I hope you like it and you keep reading it. Lots of chapters, pain and feelings ahead! (hard yaoi is later on though, I'm afraid. And lovey-dovey fluff. That's even further on ;)) (RuPru style, don't expect rainbows and sugar and flowers and little ponies!)

**UPDATED NOTE:** I just forgot to thank you my anonymous commenters Krolik and Rus. Thank you guys, you really motivate me to continue :). And of course, SM-13, Cloudia and Aiciel. Aiciel, you're very kind with your reviews and I really appreciate them ^^. A long fic is sure a hard work for an author, and translating... well... that's even harder. Sooo I need to be sure this fic is accepted among English speakers before continuing. Too few readers and favourites are not encouraging... ._.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2. SIBERIA (Part 1)<strong>

1

Fortunately, the region of Siberia where the NKVD general Ivan Braginski was posted to was located in the western part of the almost unfathomable immensity of that frozen hell of plains, forests and swamps.

_Fortunately_... With a grimace, Gilbert shook his head as to expel inappropriate words that came to his mind. Even in times like those he was able to extract something that was minimally positive. And no, his immediate destination was neither positive at all nor had anything remotely hopeful.

Yes, it was an honor to be in the Russian delegation. It was only the two of them and a couple of flat, surly soldiers who carried rifles across their backs, who treated him like a lamb to be slaughtered. _Yeah, what an honor! Our own bodyguards in our sweet honeymoon_, the Prussian thought and chuckled at his own joke. He shifted his gaze to his particular Soviet nightmare and realized he had not taken his eyes off him while they were riding for the last stretch on horseback. The Russian had to have seen him laughing. Ivan's furrowed brow and his expression of deep surprise did nothing but renew the laughter of his prisoner.

Ivan gently nudged his horse to catch up with his captive and raised his voice to be heard over the gusts of wind that burned the cheeks of the four travelers.

"You're laughing, Prussian. Why?"

He had barely spoken to him in the past few days and Gilbert had almost missed his conversation. Almost.

"It's been a long time since I last rode a horse," he replied with a smile almost as cold as the wind and almost as wide as his own desire to die. "I'm enjoying it".

"I'm glad then," said Ivan returning him a smile even better than his own.

_Son of a bitch..._

"I'm looking forward to arrive to my new home sweet home," said Gilbert looking straight ahead again.

"You are, right? You'll make new friends, don't worry."

"If my new friends are like our two friends here," he said, pointing with his chin to the two soldiers who escorted them, "then I will be happy to offer them... uh... my deepest devotion."

"Maybe you'll have to offer them something more than your devotion, Prussian. The guys in there could be... let's say, they can be a little possessive."

"I have nothing to offer them."

"Well, we'll have to see about that."

Gilbert suppressed his next comment. It was strangely fun to chat with the Russian, and at least one could forget the biting cold that seized up and numbed his limbs. He also tested his own patience and self-control. However, he did not know if he was going too far. The Soviet was unpredictable and that made him nervous. Not knowing for sure if he was joking innocently or was about to seethe with anger at the most unexpected time.

It had been several days since they had left Moscow and since then they had been going up north. Always north and always east. It gave the impression that the trip would never end. At first they had traveled on a rickety and noisy train which had stopped at least three times on its way, due to malfunction or a problem on the tracks. From his wagon, Gilbert had been able to see a group of men looking bleak and exhausted, who were taken by a warmly dressed Soviet man who shouted orders to them in order to solve the rail issues that had stopped the train. No doubt they were prisoners from a nearby gulag and knowing that did not help to encourage the German. He saw himself in the same situation, reduced to be a living skeleton, covered with clothes all clearly inadequate for the arctic cold, forced to build roads, cut trees or dig into some godforsaken dark mine until his last forces failed him and they executed him with a shot in the back of the neck as he was no longer useful.

The conversation had languished and now Gilbert watched the fluttering scarf on the shoulders of the Russian with apprehension as he left him alone again astride his pale gray horse. Like a ghostly apparition in the snow, all white, silent, the white death. Gilbert rubbed his cheeks, which he no longer felt, and forced himself not to look at him. The Soviet had taken great pains to get him there alive, but of course, he did not know if that was a blessing or, conversely, the prelude to a nightmare that would become eternal. Like that very same trip.

"Be careful, little bunny. This terrain is treacherous," Ivan warned suddenly. Gilbert could not be sure about how long it had been since the last time he heard Ivan's voice. Hours may have elapsed. "One misstep and your horse will sink into the swamp. And that's it."

"Thank you for your concern. It's touching."

"As a dead man, you are useless to me."

His statement was like a whip in an already open wound. But the tone he had used was definitely worse. Indifferent, casual, oblivious.

"Why do you want me _alive_, if I may ask?" inquired the Prussian, feeling his blood boil inside his veins. He tangled his fingers on the reins and imagined himself placing those same strips of skin around the neck of the Soviet, tightening, squeezing...

"I won't explain how things work here", said Ivan. "But I'll make it easy for you to understand. It is all about impressing your superiors. You, the Nazis, should know much about it."

"I'm not a…"

"Yes, I know. You're not a Nazi". The Russian interrupted him scornfully. "I will make you sing a different song, little bunny."

"Through torture?"

"Who knows ...?"

"I'm not going to confess lies", assured Gilbert fiercely. "You are very wrong if you think I'm scared of you. Pain is nothing for me". He relaxed the pressure of his fingers on the reins and then added in a lower voice: "I don't feel anything anymore".

Ivan was silent for a moment, thoughtful watching his prisoner while evaluating the possibilities.

"I think you're gonna be easier than I expected", he finally said, clicking his tongue. "What a disappointment."

"Don't you dare judge me, _russkiy_. You have no fucking idea what I'm like" Gilbert fixed his flaming eyes on him, and for a moment it seemed as if the whiteness of his cheeks glowed with red light.

"That's better", said the Russian with a slightly warmer smile. "I will reserve my judgment for later then. I'll judge you when you beg me to stop me. When you ask me tearfully that that I finish you at once. When you regret having said that you don't feel anything."

A shiver ran through his body from head to toe when he heard him saying that with a happy and dreamy look, as if he was imagining a promising and immeasurable beauty.

"That's not going to happen", said Gilbert with casualness. "I'm sorry but I'm gonna spoil your fucking fantasies."

"Oh, the poor brave little soldier. Do you think that because you have been permitted to treat me with familiarity during the trip I will be gentle to you? Do you think this is only just talk to intimidate you? Do you think you're someone special to me?" He laughed and the wind chanted wickedly with him.

Gilbert did not respond. He was all to blame for not knowing when to shut up.

"When we cross these barbed wire, Prussian, you will enter my domain. There I am the king. There is all done according to my will. There I am the one who decides who lives and who dies, who should work and who does not. You should not forget.

"I won't forget", the prisoner muttered.

"Now it's a good time for you to recover the respect you owe to your owner."

Who did he think he was? He also knew how to play the game.

"I won't forget it ... Your Honor."

Well, at least that was true. He never forgot a thing.

* * *

><p>2<p>

The first few days in the Gulag were crucial. In a way it was not so different from the reassignment to other division in the army, one had to take positions and keep them at all costs. Gilbert was tired of seeing how those rookies who showed the slightest sign of weakness were crushed. Men judge lightly by what they see so if you have the strength and perseverance to show what you want them to see, you already have almost won.

He had been an officer in the _Wehrmacht_ and, therefore, he functioned well among men, accepting and delivering orders and adapting to a work of routine and fixed shifts. In fact, it was not much worse than the war in the east. They had always talked so much about the wickedness of the Soviet Gulag, so expectations were far exceeding the reality he found in that particular labor camp. It certainly was much better than the dark cell in Moscow in which the fucking Russian had confined him. At least now he had some free time and a larger portion if he could achieve the targets that were set.

Ivan Braginski was the NKVD chief who had been assigned to that camp. To _The Zone_, as it was called. Perhaps that explained why the Prussian had barely seen him in days, while he was acclimating to his new prison. Ivan would be organizing paperwork, talking with his superiors in The Party, doing what a head of a Gulag was supposed to be doing. He wouldn't have time for him. And he wished he never would. Every time he remembered his face, his violet eyes, his smile and his warm and cold voice he felt outrageously uncomfortable.

The barracks he was assigned to, were those for the German prisoners of war, and perhaps it was the best thing they could have done for him. Not only because of language matters, that was clear, but for the ease with which they settled the previous military graduations they'd held in the _Wehrmacht_. Even if the German army had been dismantled, he still remained a lieutenant for his former comrades in arms; most of them were very young soldiers. There was almost not a single official among them —it was most likely that the officers had been executed after the battle— and there were also some members of the Waffen-SS who had fought in Russia. It was harder to join together with them because already during the war they had behaved as if everyone owed them a huge favor. Unlike Gilbert, almost none of them came from traditionally military family, but had been recruited by the party. Many of the SS members were good soldiers, but lacked of the military code of honor. Truth to be told, the code of honor had actually passed into history in recent years. But he needed to believe that at least he was better than Himmler's soldiers.

According to the Geneva Conventions, prisoners of war with official status could not be forced to work in labor camps unless they themselves wanted to and Gilbert, of course, made good use of this advantage. Soviet foremen and urkas who were responsible for monitoring political and military prisoners didn't like that annoying and disdainful Prussian who sat aside while his teammates did all the physical work. Maybe he was tempting fate. He had been told that urkas or common criminals were dangerous and sadistic, that sometimes they even gambled the lives of other inmates out of sheer boredom, and Gilbert was aware that he was getting in their sights with his own behavior. But his countrymen protected him. When the Soviets were not watching them, they surreptitiously saluted him and some even dared stood at attention before him.

As for food rations, they depended on meeting the objectives set by the boss, although it was not a problem for Gilbert since his own soldiers willingly gave him a tiny part of their rations, even if they were very lean. And it was not only because he was their _Oberleutnant_, but also because he drew the respect and admiration of his colleagues the fourth day after his arrival in the Gulag.

One of the youngest soldiers, he was hardly eighteen, had dropped out of sheer exhaustion while loading tree trunks in trucks for six hours. They knew that if a man fell to the ground, the foreman in charge could use the butt of his rifle or even his whip in order to make them to stand up again. Some were very skilled in handling the whips and lost no chance to show their technique. Gilbert, who had been smoking, reclining lazily on the wheel of one of the old American Studebakers, rose quickly without thinking, and interposed between the prisoner and the guard just to receive the first warning lash instead the boy. It didn't hurt thanks to the padded clothing that protected him from the cold and snow, but it was enough for him to grip the leather whip from the endpoint to prevent the guard from wielding it again against him or against the defenseless boy who laid in the floor.

The Germans had stopped working and some of the guards had their guns drawn and took aim at him with a surly countenance which seemed to express: "I won't hesitate to pull the trigger, albino scum." Gilbert dropped the whip and then raised his hands in the air for all to see he was unarmed.

Speaking in German to them would be useless, so he made himself understood by mime, before the Russians carried out his silent death threats. Gilbert pointed to the exhausted boy and then to himself. He indicated the mountain of logs which had to be loaded and finally pointed the Soviets, while moving his hands in the air from one side to another hoping they interpreted his gestures correctly. The Soviet gave him a lecture in Russian although the only thing he understood was his angry tone. He sighed in relief. It was a good sign.

After that the Prussian worked instead the young man, his group met its objectives that day. Thereafter, the Germans began to treat Lieutenant Beilschmidt with greater respect and even the Soviets began to see him as the spokesman for the group, a kind of leader to be taken into account when they wanted to contact any member of the flock.

Gilbert was more than jubilant. He had become a celebrity in the camp. Life there was not so bad after all since one could get used to anything, to extreme cold, to the beatings and rude hustling that some bored guard occasionally awarded him, to monotony, the lack of food, and strenuous work shifts.

But best of all was that the Russian didn't show signs of life.

One day, during the free time left between work shifts and while he was doing some pushups alone, he was approached by a man he had never seen before. True Blood. His appearance certainly betrayed him. Neat, shifty-eyed, still had that attitude between hopeful and terrified. The rookie wore glasses and his hair was long and dark, falling over his cheeks in a somewhat delicate way. Gilbert shook his head disapprovingly.

_A burden._

"Are you... are you the _Oberleutnant,_ Gilbert Beilschmidt?" asked the newcomer with insecure and reverential voice.

The Prussian stood up, stretched some muscles of his arms, shook off snow and extended a hand in the air to the man.

"I'm the one."

The rookie made a strange face that mimicked an attempt at a smile and shook his hand. Gilbert did not hesitate to shake it hard.

"You got a southern accent... Are you Austrian?"

"That's correct. I'm Roderich Edelstein, pleased to meet you, Oberleutnant..."

"Call me Gilbert. Gil if you want."

The Austrian nodded solemnly. "I've heard a lot about you in the barracks."

"Well, well. That's only normal. I'm irresistible," Gilbert said giving him a huge smile. Roderich froze. It was very rare to find a smile like that in that gray enclosure surrounded by barbed wire. Nobody smiled in there. Neither the guards, nor the _urkas_, and the prisoners certainly didn't do it. And there he was, a Prussian with ashen hair and amazing eyes, the only color that stood out in the middle of that grayscale that prevailed in that world apart from the world.

"Welcome, Roderich," said the German patting one of his shoulders. "If you need anything don't hesitate to ask me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to my pushups."

"Could... could I stay here for a little longer? Please?"

Gil looked searchingly into his eyes and after a while he nodded and smiled without saying a word. He resumed the exercises, aware that his new spectator followed every move and knowing it gave him some sort of exhibitionist pride that motivated him to further punish his muscles. He proposed to be the one he had been, and would not stop until he regained his strength and the firm shape of his body. He had even begun to work like the other prisoners and when Gilbert proposed something, he succeeded. And once in a while, everything seemed bright.

Within two weeks, Ivan Braginski called him to the interrogation room.

It was not necessary, but two Soviets escorted him, taking him by the arms to the room where the head of the Gulag was expecting him. They exchanged a few sentences of rigor, of which Gilbert thought he understood a couple of words and the guard finally abandoned him to his fate against the giant who "decided who lived and who died."

"It'll be just the two of us, little bunny. You were dying to see me again, right?"

Gilbert froze, his expression as impassive as he could manage.

"But sit down, please. Don't stand there," the Russian gestured with a wave of his hand.

The Prussian hesitated and glanced around. There was no potentially harmful object at sight. Moreover, the room was empty except for the table, two chairs, a bottle of vodka and a recording device that stood on the aseptic and untainted whiteness of the table. The room was heated and it was even nice enough to be there after he had been outdoors for hours, trying not to freeze at night under the covers of the rickety bunk he shared with his fellow inmates.

He sat in front of the Russian and breathed deeply. All the poise and overwhelming security he had found so easy to deploy those previous days in the Gulag staggered to the presence of the man whom in his heart had begun to call "the ice demon."

"Well, well. I've been busy, as you might have imagined. This is a very important camp for the Party and they have high expectations of it. I appreciate that you've helped me accomplish my goals this month. At the next meeting I will be praised by the NKVD and they may even reward me."

Gilbert watched him as he spoke. He seemed genuine in his appreciation.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," he said in Russian, and a sweet and clean smile broke out across Ivan's face, who toyed with the bottle of vodka, making his nails to resonate rhythmically against the glass.

Vodka. He remembered the vodka put him in a good mood.

"You're a good pet. Maybe you're smarter than I figured."

"Yes, sir."

"So, you should know what are we going to do here, right?"

Gilbert felt the slight change that took place in the atmosphere of the room after the Soviet pronounced those words.

"I'm not sure, sir."

"You're gonna tell me everything I need to know, Prussian. Because you're gonna help me please my superiors, _da_?"

The albino shivered due to the implicit threat hanging over him.

"Let's spare the bad blood, Prussian," said Ivan. "That's why I've summoned you here today. As civilized gentlemen, let the two of us to have a friendly chat. I will make you questions and you'll answer them. Is everything clear?"

"I do not have any relevant information to offer you," said Gilbert feeling a little bit insecure.

"It won't be necessary to resort to our methods," he continued, ignoring his interruption. "You know them, right? I guess they're not so different from those of your Gestapo."

"_Grazhdanín_ Braginski... "

A slight movement of his eyebrows told him that the kindness of the Russian began to come to an end.

"What would you prefer? Shall we start with something smooth?"

"I'm not going to lie so you have something to bring to your minions of the NKVD," said Gilbert quietly after a brief pause.

Ivan uncorked the bottle and took a swig before leaving it on the table with a surly blow.

"Get out of my sight, Prussian. Now," The Russian warned, twitching his fingers around the glass bottle. "Or I swear I'll smash that pretty face of yours with this. "

* * *

><p>3<p>

Roderich had become an important part of his daily life. They slept in the same barracks but in different sections. However, once the daily shift started, the Austrian managed to roam near him first thing in the morning. In a way, his constant presence reassured Gilbert. Roderich's courteous and gracious ways, his obvious adoration in each of the comments he addressed to Gilbert and each of Roderich's looks, full of unconscious admiration; all of these things flattered Gilbert's hungry ego and he even began to search Roderich's company on his own initiative.

It was a fair _quid pro quo_. The Austrian fed his narcissism and the Prussian protected him from those undesirable men who saw him as easy prey. Sometimes he even helped out with the heavy lifting and that did nothing but exacerbate Roderich's devotion towards him. Rumors about them, obviously, began to circulate among the men, some more malicious than others —of course that was the least of Gilbert's concerns.

Several days had passed without hearing of the Russian, but he was no longer optimistic about his absence. He was anxiously expecting the time when he'll be required again to return to his presence and assumed that the next time he would not be so sympathetic towards him. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he had the constant feeling that he was being watched. Day and night. At every instant. Everywhere he went. As if they do not want to miss a single one of his moves, and Gilbert did not know if he was going crazy or if indeed he was being watched. At least when he was with Roderich he could set aside all those thoughts.

One afternoon, the pair enjoyed the solitude of each other's company. Sometimes they would stay in comfortable silence, each one focused on their own particular dilemmas; other times, Gilbert began to talk about himself and didn't stop, even to take a breath. The Austrian was a good listener, but that particular afternoon had been devoted to the complicit silence. Gilbert took a cigarette out from a pocket and handed it to his friend with one of those smiles that were like small treasures. Roderich let Gilbert place the cigarette between his lips and waited for him to light it with a match. Observing his wrist movement, the Austrian thought that Gilbert were unbearably manly yet elegant in each of the things he did. The brunette took a deep drag and blew the smoke into the sky, leaning back on the wall next to the lonely shed where they sat and had chosen for their getaways.

"Where do you get the snuff, Beilschmidt?"

"Contacts. Some... fiddlings. Don't ask."

The Austrian nodded and handed the cigarette to him in return, so he could also puff away on his cigar. It was just an ethereal and fleeting touch of his fingers, but provoked such a thrill in Roderich that he nearly slipped the cigarette into the ground. Gilbert did not seem to notice and continued smoking.

Roderich examined his companion, fascinated by his profile, his long silver lashes, the luscious stroke of his lips and the way in which he leaned indolently on the wall with one arm resting on one knee and one leg stretched over the earth covered with ice.

And although he was at Gilbert's side, only a few inches from him, it gave the impression that he was thousands of miles away. The Prussian was the exact picture of loneliness. As if that were not enough, something was wrong. He used to know those kind of things.

"What's wrong?"

"Huh?" Gilbert turned and looked at him with surprise and with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"I see something is on your mind. Are you not going to tell me what it is?"

His friend stared into the immensity of the Siberian sky and his faintest smile with a hint of melancholy responded more accurately than the words that came from his lips:

"Ivan Braginski."

"What did you say?"

"That's what happens to me. Ivan Braginski."

"Who is he?"

Gilbert gasped in surprise.

"You don't know who he is? He is... He is the king of these domains." He repressed a mocking laugh and shook his head vigorously, making a few snowflakes stuck to their hair shone like tiny pearls on silver.

"Is... is he an officer of the...?" He don't even dared to mention them.

"He IS the officer," answered the Prussian. "I don't know exactly what that bastard wants from me, but a few days ago he threatened me with torture to confess. And frankly, I don't know what the hell he wants me to confess."

"And he let you go away?" Roderich asked incredulously.

Gilbert sighed taking another drag on his cigarette, almost unlit.

"He let me go... But I think next time he won't be satisfied with a mere threat and a pat on the back."

The next morning, after reveille, a few soldiers came searching for him, bursting noisily in the barracks and violently pushing away those who were already up in their bunks. As he was carried away, Gilbert could see the worry and the fear in the face of the Austrian, and he felt unrest even before facing the Russian again.

"You've become very famous in the zone, haven't you?"

Those were the first words that Ivan dedicated him when they were alone again. It was the same room from the last time, the only caveat was there was no vodka around. This time, however, he was not kindly offered to sit as in their previous meeting. Moreover, he let him to stand in the middle of the white room and approached him, as one man who was having a nice walk with his lover.

"I told you you'd make friends, didn't I?"

Gilbert knew he should give him no answer. Something told him that the Soviet expected only an excuse to change the tune and increase the rate of the initial adagio.

"Don't be wrong with me, Prussian. If you underestimate me, you'll end up dead."

The prisoner held his breath as the man walked and stopped a moment behind him. He was tense waiting, preparing for whatever was to come, but after a while the Russian resumed the ominous clicking of his boots to be back in front of him. Very close, too close to each other. So close he could feel his warm breath over the skin of his cheeks.

"And you started to smoke without my permission." Ivan shook his head simulating a deep disappointment. "You don't realize yet what your place is."

He realized that he was wearing gloves when he raised one hand and stroked his cheek with his thumb, and drew the outline of his jaw with gentle abruptness. Gilbert sincerely hoped that the Russian would not notice the deafening sound of his heartbeat.

"Be careful, little bunny," he whispered bringing his lips closer to his for a few seconds, then leaning on him to reach one of his ears. "Because you're playing with fire."

No, he was wrong. Gilbert was the fire himself. The bastard was just an inert piece of ice.

Ivan finally moved away from him and looked into his eyes with such intensity that Gilbert almost felt like a real rabbit, dazzled by the headlights of a car shortly before being rolled.

"I've heard a lot of rumors about you," continued Ivan with a grimace of disapproval on his lips. "You really know nothing. Sometimes it is much better to be alone, Prussian. Friends are nothing but a burden. A hindrance."

When he heard him saying this, a sign of weakness buried unconscious under the most explicit threat, Gilbert dropped his guard for a moment and certainly made the mistake that had been trying not to commit:

"Oooh, I see! You are jealous."

He had not thought of it. Of course not. And as wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, he was still cursing himself for his stupid bravery and for allowing himself to taste the satisfaction to make the Russian losing control. The punch was so devastating that Ivan was still rubbing his knuckles when he came to speak to him. This time his tone was less content than before. The ice had finally slightly cracked.

"All right. You've had your moment of glory. Satisfied?"

Gilbert was about to reply, but stopped himself.

"Is it necessary for me to warn you to be careful with the next stupidity that came out of your mouth?"

"_Grazhdanín_ Braginski," said the prisoner in a conciliatory voice, wiping again his blood trickle from his chin. "Let's make a deal. I sit there, you turn on that junky thingy and record all I'm going to say."

"Is it some kind of trick, Prussian?"

"But I'm not gonna lie. I am incapable of lying. I'm sorry."

Ivan blinked for a moment with a funny look of bewilderment.

"So, do we have a deal?" Gilbert reached out into the air to seal the deal but Ivan ignored his gesture.

"That's what I wanted from the beginning. You like playing hard to get, don't you?" Ivan gestured angrily to the chair. "Come on, sit the fuck down."

They sat facing each other both with serious and circumspect attitude and the Russian turned on the tape without looking away from his face, measuring in advance the least of his facial gestures. It was the Soviet who made a recording history, revealing the identity of the respondent:

"Gilbert Beilschmidt, native of the old German province formerly known as East Prussia, _Oberleutnant_ of the 4th Army of the _Wehrmacht_. He took part in the siege of Leningrad during its first year under the Army Group North and was later relocated to the Central Army Group in order to strengthen the useless Operation Typhoon, as we know as our brave "Battle of Moscow". After Operation Bagration his unit was one of the few German units that survived and retreated westward. Reorganized into the fortified city, formerly known as Königsberg, under the XXVIII Army Corps, and finally taken prisoner in the assault on that city the 9th April 1945, hours before its final surrender to the Red Army."

The German, stunned, hid his hands under the table in an automatic gesture, but the Russian stopped him with a dry, sharp command:

"The hands on the table, Lieutenant Beilschmidt."

Gilbert had not told him of this. Their intelligence services had done their job, that was clear. He felt himself blushing violently and watched the gleam of satisfaction in those violet eyes of his hateful enemy. Gilbert put his palms up on the table, one of them still stained with his own blood, and he challenged him with a quiet smile, as if he was who was dominating the situation and not the other man.

"Are you in conformity with this?"

In Moscow he had denied that he had been part of the siege of Leningrad. Now the Russian knew he had lied, but it wouldn't happen again. And he needed him to know.

"I'm contented."

Ivan nodded and even smiled encouragingly, with a subtle hint of sweetness.

"How long were you in the formerly known city of Königsberg after the removal of your unit from Moscow?"

Gilbert cringed inwardly the second time he heard him to say that the beloved city where he was born, lived and grown was no longer called Königsberg and again risked incurring the wrath of the Soviet. But he needed to know.

"_Grazhdanín_ Braginski, please..."

"Answer the question."

"I beg you. Just answer my question and I'll answer whatever you ask me. What happened to East Prussia?"

The Russian considered whether to grant or not his desire. The truth is that he loved to be begged.

"Oh, I see. You know nothing about it, right?" he asked in a fatherly tone and not without cruelty. "Königsberg is history. It no longer exists. It's over. Your home, and the home of your ancestors are now part of the Soviet Union. Surely in your parents' house is housing a good Soviet family now."

He realized that his prisoner's hands were shaking, but his face remained impassive and his eyes too fixed on him to be convincing in his false indifference.

"They are considering changing its name to something more suitable. Königsberg is too Prussian..." He shook his head. "King's Mountain? What king, _Lieutenant _Beilschmidt? Your kingdom has long died. Now, it is a fact."

The Prussian was making a superhuman effort not to break before him, though the wet twinkle in the corner of his scarlet eyes was all Ivan needed at the moment.

"It was a year and a half, sir," he said, the voice still firm, his pulse not so much.

"So you were in town when your Nazi friends moved there what they stole in Leningrad. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"I'm not sure, sir."

"Oh, come on! The amber. The Amber Room from Catherine Palace."

So that was what Russian wanted to find at all costs to make a name in the Party... The Amber House, no less, one of the most important symbols for the Russians, even the anti-Tsarist Russians.

"Ah, yes. The gift from Frederick William I of Prussia to your Tsar. I don't know his whereabouts. In any case, the amber was returned to where it belonged," said Gilbert shrugging and recovering some of its proud poise and ironic tone.

"Stop bugging me, Prussian. You stole it, and also gifts shouldn't be returned."

"Well, I think sometimes yes, they should be... When relationships deteriorate to the point that become unrecoverable," he quipped.

"It was way better for you when you were our friends," commented Ivan in a fit of honesty and reproach he had not been premeditated.

The prisoner nodded.

"I agree. Personally, I didn't want us to go into war with the Soviet Union. Neither I nor many members of the _Wehrmacht."_ Gilbert looked at him with narrowed eyes, in a sexy gesture that unexpectedly caught the Russian off guard. "But orders are orders. And you should know better, eh, comrade?"

Under normal circumstances, at such insolence he would presented him with a withering punch in the face again, but Ivan simply cleared his throat and regained consciousness.

"You've said you didn't know where it is, but you were there when you hid the amber in your castle. Something like this should be known to an army officer."

"I assure you I don't know. You have to believe me."

"Because you never lie?" Ivan suggested with a cold smile.

"They... they say the amber was burned because of the British bombing."

"A perfect and comfortable excuse, yes".

"Ivan..." Gilbert blushed when he pronounced the first name of his interrogator and he corrected himself instantly. "_Grazhdanín_ Braginski, I don't have a country anymore. And I have nothing left, no home, no family. I don't even have the slightest hope of getting out of here alive." He felt a lump in his throat but it was too late to stop. "I wouldn't lie to you because I don't have absolutely nothing to lose, but perhaps I have something to gain."

The Soviet sat in the back of his chair and fiddled with the tips of his fingers. The moment seemed eternal to him.

"Tell me, Gilbert..."

He had called him by his name. Neither disparaging names of animals, nor Prussian, nor even lieutenant. Gilbert. Just Gilbert. As if he was a person.

"Y-yes?"

"Did you actively collaborate with the Nazi regime?"

It was like a jug of cold water. If he had managed to overcome nothing less than the dissolution of Prussia and not to be dominated by sentimentality a few moments ago, now he found impossible to escape from himself. Maybe it was because he had called him Gilbert, perhaps it was because he was exhausted, perhaps by the pressure and by his mixed, simultaneous and contradictory feelings that began to undermine his strength.

"Did you kill Jews, Poles and Russians civilians? Did you kill children, their mothers? Did you get drunk and shot them in the neck, near a ditch?"

It was for everything. And for his hurtful and inquisitive tone, and the truth that had blackened his heart and soul, and for all those years of war, killings, insensitivity, of destruction, of nonsense.

A lone, single tear slid down his white, immaculate cheek, and disappeared like so many millions of people who had not mattered to anyone.

"Yes, _Grazhdanín_ Braginski. I collaborated with the Nazis," he confessed at last, his body shuddering, sinking into the chair, clenching his eyelids as if he could that way to escape from those images which were carved in his mind and never will be entirely erased.

The Soviet pursed his lips and looked away toward the tape, which was still recording, faithfully fulfilling its duty... As it was expected.

"Lieutenant Beilschmidt..."

"I voted for them. I voted them. My whole family did. They promised Germany would be what she was once was, that the injustice and humiliation would end at last. And I believed them." His tone of plaintive self-justification was softening up to a monotonous rhythm, submission, acceptance of grieving. "My little brother, Ludwig, went to Berlin. He was only seventeen."

"Your brother..."

"He joined the SS."

"You said you collaborated with them, but you have not answered my questions," said Ivan. "Do you personally killed innocent people following an idea...?" He stopped and grimaced. "Do you commit those atrocities or order others to commit them?" he finished reformulating the question more appropriately.

"No, but I was there. I watched as others did. And I... I did nothing to stop it."

The Russian reached out across the table until he touched the Prussian's hands and let his fingers rest on his skin for a few seconds. Enough to make his prisoner to recover and to sit up straight in the chair.

"The way I see it, Prussian, you were not a fascist, but another victim. A rather more fortunate victim than the majority, that's true, but even so..."

Gilbert's eyes widened, not knowing if he was more shocked by his sudden physical gesture of affection or by his comprehensive words.

"Still there are responsibilities," the Soviet continued. "Do you think you deserve to be here?"

"I deserved to have died with the others."

"Then do you consider that death is a worst punishment than to be here, lost in the middle of nowhere, inside a few fences, subjected to my will?"

"I... I do not know."

"Let's see this otherwise. If you're telling me the truth, you didn't participate actively in the death of innocents, but did you save the lives of any of them at you own risk?"

Gilbert looked up at his question and a spark lit his eyes like a lightning in the middle of a powerful storm.

"Yes, sir, I did."

"To my understanding, for saving the life of a person who was already doomed, you redeem yourself to become a noble and tragic hero and... A certainly suicidal hero."

He was defending him. He was encouraging him. A communist. The most hated enemy of that regime; he had boosted with his first vote. A Slav, one of those beings of whom they had repeated _ad nauseam_ that they were inferior. And above all, a Soviet! Many of his own comrades would totally disagree with him.

Ivan's face suddenly seemed the face a very different person. Much less unpleasant than it had seemed to him at first.

"Tell me who did you save and how did you do it?" asked Ivan, much friendlier. Or maybe it was only the way he saw him now. In any case, Gilbert nodded and proceeded to tell him about his experience with the Jews in Stutthof's satellite camp, west of East Prussia.

"They intended to evacuate the Jews and the German civilians before the arrival of the Red Army, so they were transferred from the camp to the only port that was still free of occupation. But it was impossible, or so we were told. You know in Königsberg there is plenty of amber mines, right?"

Ivan raised his eyebrows and did not consider necessary to answer that. Gilbert flushed again.

"Well, I guess those are the mines where they extracted the famous amber we give you... uh... and then we stole from you. Anyway, the _Gauleiter_ Koch and his cohorts came up with the bright idea to put all those Jews in the pit of the mine before sealing the door. The mine manager refused to do that and some said that he even provided the Jews with food. And... well, the next day this man was found dead.

"Speaking of futile heroics," Ivan remarked cynically. "But please, continue."

"I was told the mayor called a few kids from the Hitler Jugend and made those kids drunk. The boys would watch the mine while some members of the SS were executing Jewish women and children in pairs... those who had tried to escape." The Prussian added until he fell silent.

"What happened to the rest?" asked the Soviet finally, gently, breaking his silence.

"They led them to frozen water in the night, and made them to get inside the water hitting them with their rifles. They lit up the sky with flares so they could see well where to strafe. The bodies of the Jews kept appearing on the surface for days."

"So you saved..."

"It was only two women. A young woman and one old lady. Only two. Of seven thousand."

"Gilbert."

"I allowed them to stay in my house and brought them food whenever I could. I don't know if they survived the Red... well... if they survived _you_."

The Russian took a deep breath and for a while they both were silent, looking at each other, looking tired, sharing a strange mixture of gratitude, disgust and guilty complicity. They did not need more words. The Prussian certainly felt like he'd emptied his soul; it had been turned upside down, and fought hard not to succumb to a nervous breakdown.

Ivan, meanwhile, reached out and turned off the tape recorder. He took the tape and, without saying a word, he destroyed it with his own hands.

"You know what, little bunny?"

Gilbert laughed. With a laugh that was almost like a sob, but it was both: joy and sorrow, relief and anguish.

"I'm dying for a good drink. And you can take the rest of the day off. Come on, get out of here. You can do whatever you want."

The prisoner nodded, stood up on his shaky and half numb legs and after dedicating him a martial salute in the way he'd seen the Soviets do, he finally turned away from that kind of dream that the Russian had woven around him.

* * *

><p>4<p>

The day came finally to an end, the only day that the head of the Gulag had granted him free of work, and he had not even been able to indulge in his usual exercise.

Doing exercise not only helped him to gain back the perfect tone of his muscles, but to ease his mind and forget everything which deserved to be forgotten. With the continuous and monotonous repetition he used to be in a state of mental limbo, and he suspected that saved him from falling definitely into madness.

But after the interrogation, everything had changed.

When the Austrian returned from his shift, Gilbert was about to tell him to leave him alone. At that time Gilbert did not want to tell him anything because he didn't want to relive a single second of his exchange with the Russian, but mostly because he wanted to keep it to himself. He wanted to treasure it. As a kind of secret between them.

But the Austrian was insistent. For better or worse, he never knew when to give up. With a sigh of acceptance, Gilbert let him to take a seat next to him and Roderich didn't need to be asked twice.

"Well, what happened? Are you okay? Did he ... did he hurt you?"

"You know what, Rod? I'd rather not talk about it."

"But ..."

"I'm fine."

"I've been worried sick all day about you. I imagined that he was torturing you and ..."

"No... He barely hurt me," said the Prussian without looking at him.

"Barely?"

The German then glanced at him, and somehow Roderich knew that behind the immense sadness his friend was showing, there was something more hidden, repressed deep down, as a majestic and chained beast, crouching and awaiting release.

Roderich raised an arm to him and around his shoulders. He, who never dared to touch him. He felt that the Prussian stiffen under his friendly approach but did nothing to shake it off. After a few seconds, the tension almost disappeared magically.

"I'd give anything for a beer," remarked Gilbert suddenly and a poignant laughter floated between them for a moment, like a warm and impossible wave in the middle of the cold of the late summer.

"I'm glad that bastard didn't do anything to you," said Roderich reducing a little more the distance between them. "Because I still remember what you told me about him..."

Gilbert had said he preferred not to talk about what had happened in that interrogation room, but the Austrian already knew his companion too well. He was still counting the seconds remaining until the Prussian exploded and started talking nonstop, when an exclamation from the albino stopped his mental countdown.

"I've got no nation. I don't even know who I am anymore! And the bastard enjoyed telling me. I can still see his eyes. He was so cruel... Yet at the same time…"

Gilbert stopped, and a shadow clouded his features and his exalted animation. Meanwhile, the Austrian decided not to press him to continue.

"Roderich, do you think we'll get out of here, one day?"

His warm breath in the cold air, drew Roderich's attention, who stared for a moment his lips in a sort of trance, of transient hypnosis that the Prussian seemed not to notice.

"Because if we get out of here someday, I don't have a place to go."

Roderich made a tremendous effort not to stroke his hair and make him to shut up and forget everything, as one would do with an innocent child who'd had a nightmare.

"You have my home in Vienna. When we both leave this place together, I'll show you the Schönbrum Gardens, the Opera... Do you like classical music?"

Gilbert nodded eagerly, with a fleeting smile, and so sincere, it moved something inside the Austrian. Consequently, the latter varied his posture and his arm around his shoulders tightened further his embrace. His pianist hand of fine and elegant fingers rose to the neck of the other man. Gilbert immediately turned to face him with a frown and a look of alarm pinned in his eyes.

"What are you doing, Roderich?" From the tone he had used, however, one could not deduced his mood and the Austrian wavered. Mistrust, surprise, rejection, indecision?

"You don't need to worry about anything," he said at last.

The Prussian didn't move away, but it was easy to read his thoughts through his body language. His position had lost its previous confidence and now his legs and arms were more rigid. Somehow, he was miles away from him again.

"I don't know what happened in there, but..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Don't worry, Gilbert. If they wanted you dead, you'd be dead by now."

"I... I'd like to be alone, Roddy. Please."

The Austrian released him and got up ready to leave. He was not only a good listener but also a good observer. It seemed the Prussian needed to fix something by himself.

"All right. But feel free to search for me if you need anything. Please," asked Roderich before saying goodbye and leaving him alone, with that heartbreaking image stuck on his head: a German ex-officer sitting on a snowy step, with nothing to cling to, curled in on himself, sighing as if his interior was waging a bloody battle between hope and ultimate annihilation.

If Gilbert had known what was going to happen next, maybe everything would have gone in a very different way. Maybe he would not have said just a "thank you" and he would have asked Roderich to stay with him that night. Then maybe the next day it wouldn't have changed the whole course of his existence.

And all because of his selfishness.

That night in the barracks, Gilbert didn't join his peers, despite the insistence of the players. They used to play cards, wagering cigarettes and even future food portions or favors of various kinds. The Prussian liked Poker. And he was good at it, although he used to risk too much and sometimes all he got was a resounding defeat after another.

Despite the harshness of the life in the Gulag, he never had too much trouble when it came the time to sleep. Usually one got exhausted after the work shift and the best way to save those precious calories was sleeping. But that night he knew he could not sleep. He felt a tightness in his chest and the worst thing is that he wasn't sure what it was about. His "meeting" with the Russian had affected him, and the thought he had no future anywhere, certainly did not help him to calm down.

And then there was Roderich.

He knew there were men who exchanged their bunks to... well, to keep make some company to other men. His own bed partner, a native German from Munich who was younger than him by a few years, idolized him as a kid would do with his favorite hero. But the boy would never have dared to lay a hand on him. And now he was thinking about it, the boy had not returned to the barracks as he often did, no longer punctual like a Swiss watch. Something must have delayed him. He was beginning to worry when he noticed the boy sneak into his bed. With so many fucking emotions, Gilbert was going crazy. Now he must think positive. The Soviet, in his way, had been kind to him and that -he wanted to believe- was the most important thing of all.

Although, it was only because, now, he felt safe.

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes with his arms for a pillow, trying to relax and ignoring those twisted and rusty springs or whatever it was inside those pallets.

He was getting angry with himself for not being able to soothe his mind because the next day, cutting the logs of all those pines was going to be a devastating task, until something made him to open his eyes in shock. His bunkmate had quietly introduced a hand under the waistband of his pajamas.

He gasped and turned to reprimand the boy for his boldness, but a pair of eyes that don't expect to find stared back at him. For a moment he thought he was in front of the Russian and his heart nearly stopped. The invader's eyes were of a similar color, but did not share the glacial and lethal quality of the pupils of the Soviet.

Roderich.

The Austrian commanded him to sit still with a hand gesture. With the hand, of course, that he was not introducing inside his underwear.

"Shh..."

Gilbert blinked, still incredulous at the unexpected boldness of his companion, but soon overcome his surprise, obeyed and settled back again with his head resting on his arms. Encouraged by the quick and easy acceptance of his friend, Roderich wrapped his warm fingers around the member of the other man and very gently began to masturbate him.

There, while the other men were playing cards a few feet away from them, laughing and insulting one another, the Austrian did not lose sight of his partner's face. Gilbert had closed his eyes and his expression was almost peaceful. His pale lashes moved almost imperceptibly, his lips curled slightly in one corner, in a more relaxed version of his frequent crooked smile.

The Prussian had accepted the situation naturally, as it was not the first time one of his campaign fellows devoted similar attentions to him. Ever since the war, when he was only a cadet -especially by then- it was not too strange among the men to release tension with those little "favors". They did not go much further than that, and didn't give it more importance than necessary.

Roderich increased the speed of his fingers and the force of his movements and Gilbert slightly parted lips. He could almost hear his breathing despite the noise around them, and would have liked to descend upon Gilbert to kiss him, to match his soft gasps to his own. But he knew it was better not to do it. The German, meanwhile, had lost his thoughts to a certain person he thought he loathed. A person who was stuck into his head, either consciously or unconsciously. Fair-haired, fair-skinned, light-eyed. Someone whose mere smile made him mad and unnerving. He bit his lower lip when the Austrian quickened his strokes, and without even realizing, he whispered something in Russian. And if his partner had heard him, he didn't show it.

The groan that accompanied the climax was more audible and Roderich blushed as he pulled his hand from inside the Prussian's pants and casted a cautious glance around to see if any of the men had seen or heard them.

Gilbert opened his eyes and looked at him with some worship in his gleaming eyes, then he reached out and patted affectionately the back of Roderich's hand.

"Thank you very much."

And that was it.

He slept so well that night that the foreman who was responsible for waking up the inmates in order to count them before breakfast had to give a few kicks to his mattress until he woke up. He told him in German that so much kindness wasn't needed, and the foreman said something in Russian in return that didn't sound very good to his ears. Someday, he would have to learn their language.

He stretched and stood up. With a slight blush, he thought he needed a shower and looked for Roderich, who at that hour he used to be dedicating his "good morning" to him with his funny Austrian accent. But he didn't show up, so he thought he might be embarrassed by what they had done a few hours ago. The Prussian sighed and said to himself he would give him half of his daily ration to thank him. They were going to have fish, but and it was rumored they may even have meat for those who exceed 150% of the daily goal. Well, he would comply and would give his meat to his friend. He deserved it.

But he did not appear in the count nor at breakfast, and knew something didn't bode well. He approached the guard, an unsightly urka whose previous life would probably have been a murderous one, and asked for Roderich. The guard ignored his questions and was annoyed at his insistence, so he pushed the other man aside so hard he nearly knocked someone behind him. Gilbert had to calm down before the outbreak of a pitched battle.

His concerns were consuming him when the guards began to gather his group for the daily shift and the Austrian still did not appear. He thought of all the possibilities but none was promising. In the best case, they would have confined him to solitary confinement, which was one of the worst punishments that could be imposed in there, because one ended getting inevitably sick in that cell out in the open.

He didn't want to think about the worst scenario.

But Roderich would never have gotten himself in trouble. It had no sense, they wouldn't take him to the isolation cell, because he wouldn't hurt a fly. But then, where the hell was he?

During the shift, he asked his colleagues and especially Ulrich, his bunkmate, who blushed like a schoolgirl when Gilbert asked him about the Austrian.

"No, I haven't seen him since last night, when he asked me that... favor," confessed the boy.

"He didn't come back to switch places with you again?" asked Gilbert desperately.

"No..." The boy looked away, embarrassed. "I thought he would stay with you."

The Prussian received that information as a blow to the chest. Suddenly all made sense, even if it was crazy.

_If he had stayed with him._

He felt a lump in his throat and moved away from the boy to not collapse before him. Surely he was exaggerating. It would be absurd that ... No! He shook his head and said to himself that once inside the wired fences, he'd run to the northern sector. Just to be sure. Because obviously, Roderich wouldn't be there.

The northern sector was the section where they took the bodies of those who died or were killed in the Gulag. They used to carry the corpses there and sometimes they were left there for days. It was usually cold enough, so it did not become a problem until they finally made the corpses disappear. It was not common for prisoners to die in the Gulag, and less in late summer when the cold was not yet one of the leading causes of death.

When he finally was able to escape to the northern sector, he kept repeating to himself that it was absurd that the Austrian had been killed. And kept repeating it even when he saw the limp, lifeless body of the Austrian in a ditch, next to a desolate piece of wire, and continued to do so when he cradled him against his chest again and again until he lost track of time.

He had been killed by a shot in the back of the neck and then they had pierced his head from side to side with a bayonet. To make sure he was really dead. As if he was to be alive with half of his head open on the ground.

Mourning was soon replaced by anger and Gilbert felt that if he didn't do something soon, he would be consumed by his own fire.

He must look for the Russian.

* * *

><p><strong>SOME FINAL NOTES AND TRANSLATIONS:<strong>

A bit of history in this chapter too.

First thing to keep in mind is that **Soviet Gulags** were not Extermination camps. They were conceived to improve the economy of the Soviet Union at the same time they get rid of undesirable people for the regime. They were two kinds of prisoners: political and common ones. At the beginning, the political prisoners were treated more respectfully than the common ones (who were thieves, murderers, and such..), but it changed over time. The Bolsheviks thought the common prisoners could be redeemed, because they commited their crimes because of society (They were alienated I guess). But political prisoners were beyond salvation in the end. It's easier to change the habits of a man than his thoughts and his morality.

In certain periods, there were execution numbers for the Gulag bosses for them to carry out, but this was not the norm. Nevertheless, lots of injustices were commited too due to the pressure for meeting the objectives. Ivan knows well he HAS to be a good Soviet man if he wants to succeed and well... sometimes to survive himself. Soviet Russia was a hard place to live indeed.

Well, feel free to make me any comment. I'm just finished this story today in its original language so if you like it, don't be afraid because it's a finished thing (Oh man, I'm so sad now this came to en end...;_;)


End file.
